


Wish You Were Here

by AnyColourYouLike, double0dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Prison, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyColourYouLike/pseuds/AnyColourYouLike, https://archiveofourown.org/users/double0dean/pseuds/double0dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never imagined himself in prison. Castiel stopped thinking he'd ever get out. Yet, despite their resistance when they were paired together as cellmates, their lives began to change one step at a time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Autumn (blurrycas), who took a huge part in writing this piece. It started as a simple RP and turned into a whole new world who gave up the gift of our friendship - Mor (AnyColourYouLike).
> 
> Readers may encounter some ideologically sensitive material such as homophobia, violence, swearing, drug use, depression, violence, mentions of rape, murder, and death.

_Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.  
_ _Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky._

_Pink Floyd_

* * *

 

Dean nearly dropped the pile of supplies that were thrust into his arms, almost sending him to the floor. There were colourless blankets, a toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, simple prison supplies that were given mandatory to each new inmate. One by one, each prisoner was marched to his cell. The sounds of rattling keys and metal doors opening were heard as Dean clutched his new belongings at the end of the slowly receding line, waiting for his turn to enter one of the cells. The anticipation itched him from the inside; he didn’t know if he wanted to get this over with already, or stretch the moment out as long as possible. Yet, everything happens in due time, however painfully slow it was. In the end, Dean was alone, a hefty guard shoving open his own rusty door and, gloomily, he turned around, just hoping his cellmates weren’t a bunch of dickbags. Oh, Dean was going to find out soon just how wrong he was.

On the top bunk laid Castiel, legs dangling from the end of a thin, cheap-looking mattress. He was smoking a cigarette as he stared at the white ceiling, humming to himself a White Stripes' song that had gotten itself stuck in his head. It had been quite a while since the facility accepted new prisoners to its walls, but he didn't complain. It didn't bother him really, the dynamics of this prison never changed. It was a constant thing Castiel had learned to rely on. And it's not like the arrival was a surprise, they had all been informed about it for the past week, and when the day finally came, they were all returned to their cells for another hour to create order during this long intake. It was all clean, organized and prepared. Yet, Castiel was caught off guard when he heard the sound of rigid keys turning into the metal door.

"What the..?" he muttered as the door opened. Lifting his upper body, his legs still hanging from the edge of his bunk, he saw the guard and a new guy, a kid like him, stepping right inside his cell.

"What's going on?" he demanded, glaring viciously at the guard in front of him. "Cox, I thought it was clear this cell is supposed to be mine and mine alone!"

Castiel’s voice echoed through the thick, heavy walls, making a rhythmic sound in the small space inside the cell. Dean could swear he felt a tiny shiver going up his skin. It was summer, and with the short shirt he was given, his goosebumps were displayed to the two men in the cell, exposing his suspicion to the boy.

The thing about Castiel was that he’s a Novak. The Novaks were a rich criminal family with a little bit too much power and influence on their hands, causing them think they ran the country. Unfortunately, they were half correct.

"Well, Novak, it isn't ‘your cell’ anymore," Cox spat back at him, obviously irritated. "We have full capacity, so you gotta deal with it. Am I making myself clear?"

Castiel stared at the guard for a long while, before he snorted in contempt and blurted an angry, unsatisfied “Fine.” He took another drag from his cigarette and turned to give his new cellmate a dirty look.

"We're going back to schedule in twenty minutes, prisoners," Cox said, giving the two a look before he turned back to the hall, leaving the two strangers alone.

Dean glanced up at Novak, silently agreeing that he’s definitely not the most welcoming guy he could have as a cellmate. Maybe that was just a shitty first impression, but first impressions were everything, right? He placed his belongings on the bottom bunk, since apparently it was his now, and sat down next to the pile; he could hear the creaking sounds the mattress made as he put his weight on it, and he shifted uncomfortably. It was ragged and thin, and Dean swore he could feel the metal springs underneath him, hard and unpleasant. Sighing deeply, Dean imagined what a fun experience this will be. He could feel the everyday backpain starting already.

The cell itself was moody and grey. Emotionless. Dull. Rolling his eyes and mumbling irritated words, he realised he had two choices now: he could sit on this crappy bed and stare at this crappy wall, letting his emotions get the better of him until he drowned in them... Or, he could swallow them down like they didn’t even exist and act like he was at Summer Camp.

At the meantime, Castiel tried to ignore the new situation, and instead tried to focus on his smoke. As long as this new guy didn’t talk, move, or make any kind of contact with him, Castiel could pretend he was still alone in his individual cell. Returning to his primary position with his back resting on the mattress and legs hanging off, he forced himself to enjoy the cigarette. He loved the feeling of smoking, it helped him control the crave for something stronger than nicotine until he had a chance to use it. But, oh, now that he thought about it, he _had a cellmate_ , a cellmate that might interrupt him from peacefully using whenever he wanted to. And no, that was not a good thing. Anxiously, he moved to check if the bag of white powder was still hidden in his pillow.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when his thumb brushed against the grainy bag. It didn't matter; he knew it would be there, no one would ever dare take it from him. He was a Novak, and no one does anything against the Oh-So-Powerful-Novaks. Yet, the new guy’s presence worried him.

Returning to his cigarette and pulling his arm back to his side, Castiel could only hope having a cellmate won't mean trouble.

"So..." Dean started awkwardly, trying to find any kind of conversation with the guy. "Uh… his name is Cocks, huh?"

"Cox, you idiot," Castiel replied, not in the mood. "As in Courteney Cox? Perry Cox? A-real-last-name-Cox?"

Castiel spread his lips and twisted his jaw. He opened and closed his lips quickly and in a steady pace of movements, made four perfect smoke rings. Because he was so close to the ceiling, each one of them stroked the white surface and slowly disappeared. It was satisfying and a bit nerve calming to see those rings appearing like that. It was a skill he took much pride in, but it just wasn't enough to erase the need he felt. He'd _die_ for a tiny serving of his little treasure.

He moved his hand again towards his pillow, probing inside the pillowcase. Using now would be a pain in the ass with this guy hanging between his legs, and Castiel had no patience for little misfits destroying the peace he worked so hard to build.

Dean, however, completely unaware of his cellmate’s mood change, just rolled his eyes because /someone/ didn't get humor. He peeked up to the upper bunk to study his new cellmate. He looked kind of weird and unkempt, and his hair stuck out in odd directions like he didn't even bother to take care of it. He held himself kind of odd, too, like he really, really wanted to do something but he couldn't for... whatever reason.

"I'm Dean, by the way," he said carelessly, tossing his things into the lower bunk. The orange clothes he wore made him stand out against the greys of the cell like a traffic cone, but he decided he shouldn't worry too much about his fashion right now.

As a reaction, Castiel closed his eyes and tried to ignore the guy below him. He obviously had no idea who he was, otherwise he wouldn't say a word and just leave him be. That's what usually happened when people first heard he’s a Novak; allowing him to do whatever he wanted. It would be cliche to say he wished people would treat him differently, because it fucking was. No, Castiel was _glad_ he wasn't like the common people, Castiel liked having the sky as a limit.

"No one will call you that," he said with an empty expression and a bored, tasteless voice. His hand was still carefully touching the small grainy bag. "Cox? Novak? It is safe to say we use last names here as an exclusive naming method." God, how badly he wanted to use, just to take a small, tiny dose on his thumb and sniff it. The effect wouldn't be great, but it was something.

Dean, meanwhile, was thinking about how that name whatever mattered at all. It wasn't like he'd know these people forever. Although he had a long sentence ahead of him, Bobby was still fighting to get him out early. He didn't think the court gave a shit, though, so if he was stuck here for this long, best try and do what he could with it, right?

"Winchester," he reintroduced himself, forcing an obviously fake smile at his new roomie.

It was only a second later when Dean heard the sounds of old springs, indicating the mattress above him was moving. It didn’t take long before a loud thump of a noise was heard, and Novak landed on the floor in front of him. His eyes were vicious and his smile was unpleasant, almost scary. Dean wasn't sure what to make of it. He wanted to believe his cellmate was about to greet him, shake his hand and give him the introduction he probably deserved, except... except Dean's instincts came to play. He knew right away Novak's smile was never meant to be as friendly as he hoped. Something was off about the guy.

Not moving an inch from where he was sitting, Dean watched Castiel as he placed his lit cigarette in his mouth. Castiel's hands were slowly sliding down to the button of his pants, opening it with eyes glued to Dean, searching, gloating, distant and sparkling with dying fire in the most messed up way Dean has ever witness before. The same disturbing smile decorated his face and made Dean question every change he saw in those dead eyes. Castiel didn't stop, his hands were reaching for his zipper, pulling it down. He smiled smugly at the new inmate’s expression.

Dean was terrified, he didn't even realise his jaw dropped. He was focused in the man's actions and what he was was fuckin’ scared might follow. It couldn't really be happening, not on his first day, scratch that, on his _first hour_ in prison.

Just a second before Dean clenched his hands into fists, ready and prepared to fight this asshole, Castiel turned away to the toilet in their cell, releasing his dick out of his pants and sighing happily as his bladder emptied, the cigarette still tucked between his lips.

When he finally finished pissing, he placed it back in his pants and closed the zipper, turning to Dean only to laugh hysterically, letting his cigarette escape the grip of his lips and fall to the floor. His laugh, instead of dying, only grew stronger and stronger as he washed his hands in the sink... In Dean's eyes, he seemed like a maniac: a crazy, insane person who should've been locked up as far away from civilization as possible.

 _Oh_ , Dean thought bitterly to himself, _he already was_.

Castiel, who was too amused from himself to noticed the pissed off expression Dean's face was wearing, ducked to pick up his unfinished cigarette. He blew on it a couple of times, making sure to keep the dust away and the fire burning. He looked up at Dean with the same devilish smile that was smudged all over his face. "The valuation of cigarettes is truly high in this facility, Winchester," he said, holding the cigarette in between them, "Throwing them away each time they fall is shameful, a waste.”

Castiel placed the smoke in his mouth again, and took a long and deep breath from it, finishing it completely before throwing it to the unflushed toilet. He pressed the button and turned to look at Dean again.

"You should have seen your face!" he sneered, “Did you think you were going to die? Thought I was going to rape you? Ha!”

Castiel returned to his hysterical laughter, once again ignoring the dangerous anger on Dean’s face, but even if he did, he wouldn't care a bit. And why should he? This Winchester guy is a dead meat in this prison anyway.

Dean’s emotions went from confusion to shock to a boiling ball of rage. God, this guy was… insane. He should have thought so, though; it was fucking prison, after all. He glared at this snooty prisoner kid who had no idea who his family even was, the things he was capable of doing, the things he’s seen that would make him go crawling under that precious pillow of his.

"It’s not funny, dickbag," Dean said through gritted teeth, crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, looking away to show how little he cared.

Which was a lie, of course, ‘cause he did care. He was getting on his nerves and all he wanted was give him a few good, face-smashing punches to shut him the hell up. He tightened his fists into balls, forcing himself not to take any action. If he wanted to get out of here in one piece, he would have to deal with shit like this, no matter how messed up it was.

Castiel’s loud laugh died at once, his head snapping up as he slowly stood. One leg followed the other as he got closer and closer to Dean. His face was empty of any emotions, saying nothing and saying everything in a threatening silence. "What did you call me?" he asked finally.

Although Castiel might have seemed calmed, his voice was like thunder echoing through the walls of the cell, and his clenched eyes were like lightning slicing the sky in a middle of a storm. "What the _fuck_ did you call me?" he asked again.

Castiel didn't stop moving forward in Dean's direction, didn't stop walking until the lower bunk blocked him from getting any closer. He didn’t let it stop him, though; he leaned forward, staring with two blue piercing eyes at his cellmate, invading his personal space unpurposely.

Castiel looked at Dean, glared at him, studied him with eyes screaming for blood. He didn't skip anything, not one freckle, not one outline of his face. Patiently, he memorized Dean without backing away. He noticed the freckles, the little anger wrinkles on his forehead, the heart-shaped lips, the pointy nose. No matter how much time he took to study Dean’s basic outlines, he couldn’t escape, nor ignore, the one thing he noticed from the moment he met him - his green, green eyes. He lingered on them, absorbed and accepted their colour, remembering them without daring to let his expression get softer. Castiel knew better than that - cold, hard, unforgiving gaze, always unforgiving.

Dean, although taken by surprise, hadn't once backed down throughout their staring, keeping the same dead, hateful gaze, except his lacked something Castiel's didn’t. There was this intensity in Castiel's blue eyes, an uncompromising anger that Dean just couldn't compete with. This unexplained hatred that almost, only almost made him want to look away.

His jaw clenched, trying maybe a little bit too hard than his dad taught him not to raise his fists, and then a sound Dean was going to hate for a very long time was heard - the prison’s bell.

It rang, loud and clear, unbelievably annoying thanks to its high, repetitive sound. It was only then when Castiel backed away.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean watched the prisoner, grinding his teeth. He stopped in front of the cell door in some kind of military standing position, arms behind his back, legs glued together, back upright and straight and a blank facial expression with his eyes locked on an imaginary, distant object.

Confused, Dean kept staring at the guy’s back, waiting for the bell to stop ringing.

"You have no clue who I am, do you, Winchester?" Castiel hissed as the ringing died out, not daring to move an inch from his position, not even to turn his head to look at Dean.

Dean, in response, grinned a very cocky smirk. "I think I have a pretty good idea," he retorted.

He didn't really care if this Novak boy was the head of the entire prison, or if he was England's long lost prince gone rogue. Despite the fact that he told himself he wouldn't get in trouble, to hell if he was going to spend the next few years praying to some tough guy's little ass.

"Douche," he mouthed for good measure.

Castiel’s chest rose as he tried containing his anger. He couldn’t move an inch from where he was standing, not right now, not when the cell door might be opened in any minute. He wished it all happened three minutes ago, he wished he could punch the little brat right in the jaw and break every tooth in his mouth. He wished he could shut him up, make him see he wasn’t just another inmate in this prison. He wished he could break his face, put him down, see him bleeding and coughing, begging for mercy like the little bitch he is. Unfortunately for him, the bell rang and he couldn't allow himself to turn to his cellmate. Breaking the rules and getting in trouble with the guards will do him no good if he wants to return to his cell later. He won’t do it for his drugs. He mustn’t get in trouble for his drugs. He needs his drugs.

Yes, cigarettes weren’t allowed in this prison, but the guards didn’t care much, nor did the Warden. As long as the ministry didn’t see it, no one bothered enforcing this silly law; they knew it wouldn’t work anyway. But when it comes to drugs, it was a completely different story. Only one guard knew for a fact about Castiel’s drugs problem, and it was only because he was his provider. The rest of this prison, inmates and guards together, never had any proof, so they just had to rely on rumors. That guard, James Frampton, was a friend of Cas’s brother, Gabriel, who paid him off to sneak a bag each Sunday.

The truth is, Castiel had no idea how he’d cope in prison without the help of this small portion of fifteen grams of heroin a week. Thank God he had Gabriel.

"You are incredibly lucky there are strict rules when it comes to opening the cells," Castiel whispered below his lips, keeping his head straight and his eyes on the door,  "Get yourself out of bed this instant and act as I do before any of the guards show up."

Rolling his eyes, Dean followed his dick of a cellmate’s steps. He stood right next to him, copycatting his every move, placing his hands behind his back and straightening his head to face the door.

Dean slowly rose his eyes, he couldn’t stopping himself from taking a better look at the door. It was grey, of course, but not in the same colour as the rest of the cell. No, it was dark and metallic; unlike the rest of walls around him, it wasn’t depressing… it was threatening, strong, inescapable. It stood there like a constant reminder of what he was now, a reminder that he has nowhere to go, no choice. At the left side of the door was a small barred window, a small hope in the middle of that sea of grey. With one short look Dean knew it was never meant to be there for him, for _them_ , for the prisoners, the criminals... It was purely for the guards, meant to help them see the inmates in the cells and keep the order inside the prison’s walls.

He turned to look at Novak, who kept his gaze at the door with the same blank expression he had before. The boy looked tired, unfocused, aloof.

Was that his own fate? Becoming insane as he was, blank as he was, staring at the same door for who-knows-how-many-times a day? Not daring to take a quick glance at the window for the fear the guards might show up? Afraid to hold his hopes on that small window because there is no hope, not really... his freedom isn’t his anymore.

“Keep your eyes on the door,” Novak hissed, cutting Dean’s train of thoughts.

“Wha-uh-what?”

“Keep your eyes on the door, you idiot, I can hear them coming.”

Dean sighed, and turned to look at the door again. This guy was a huge dick.

Dean never let his emotions get over him; he taught himself not to, so when the guards finally came, despite his irritation and fear, he kept himself calm, yet unable to keep away the smug look on his face.

“Is something funny, prisoner?” a guard asked through the window. “Erase that smug look this instant.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean said and eased himself up, realising he was getting himself in trouble, “It’s hard to when you have a whiny little bitch for a cellmate.”

It was only a second later when Dean found himself facing Novak, his back hitting the wall and an arm pressed to his throat, preventing him from breathing properly. The same pair of angry blue eyes stared at him in a silent threat, scaring him more than he’d like to admit. And yet, he still couldn’t stop grinning.

The tension on his throat became more and more noticeable; the longer Dean refused to stop smirking, the harder Castiel pressed his arm on Dean’s throat.

“Nice hold you got there, Jackson Rippner,” Dean mumbled (or more like “choked” than actually “mumbled”) as he ignored his desperate need for air. He knew he was just pushing Novak’s nerves further and further. He knew the black dots in his vision were meant to be a sign to stop, but wasn’t it too late by now to admit defeat? He tried to inhale, tried to breath, but Novak’s arm was just pressed too hard. He felt like he was seconds away from fainting.

“Novak, that’s enough!” a call was heard and Dean could feel the pressure on his windpipe being released.

Dean almost fell to his knees, trying not to cough too much - he didn’t want Novak to know how badly he yearned for that air. He gulped silently, feeling the pain slowly leaving his lungs.

“New guy, what’s your name?” the guard demanded, not giving Dean more than a minute to recover.

“Isn’t it your job to know?” Dean said in a croaky voice, wanting to hit himself with a shovel just to make himself shut up. He was never good with authority, school teachers, police officers, shop employees, and pretty much everyone who thought they had the power to boss him around. Except from his dad, of course. His dad….

The guard didn’t answer. Instead, he signed for Castiel to step aside and opened the door, an unpleasant smile on his face.

“Not your best move, inmate,” the guard whispered and took the club he had on his belt, slamming it in a constant rhythm again his palm.

Calculating his steps cautiously, Dean realised it was time to back off. He knew he could take the guard out without trying, yet it might not be the smartest move on his behalf. It was his first day, after all, and he didn’t want to make an impression of a trouble maker if he was here for the long run, which he was.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled, waving his hands in front of him as he was trying to protect himself and show he had no intentions to pick up a fight with the guard. “Listen, I’m.. I’m sorr-”

The guard didn’t wait for Dean to finish his sentence and hit him on his sides, kicking him as he fell to the floor.

“I know you are,” he smiled and kicked him again, “I believe you now.”

It wasn’t like it was too bad, Dean thought, he had worse, much worse. He’d live. By the time he got up, coughing again, the guard already left the cell, leaving him all alone with an overconfident version of his cellmate.

"See you later, Winchester," Castiel snickered as he left the cell with a smile, not even glimpsing at Dean who was barely standing on his feet.

With no other option left on the table, Dean rolled his eyes once again, a thing he was sure he was going to do plenty more times in the next few years with a cellmate like this, and left the cell as well, joining the big crowd of walking orange uniforms.

He didn't know where they were all going, didn't know where _he_ was going. It was all unfamiliar and strange for him. It wasn't his life, except, right now, it was, and he had no other choice but to try getting used to it. He was a prisoner now, and there was no running away from it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0J2QdDbelmY)


	2. Chapter 2

Dean walked among the sea of orange, letting himself go unnoticed between it. Some of the inmates looked familiar with the path they were taking, joining together to speak to one another or lighting a cigarette and trying to ignore their surroundings. The rest--those he managed to recognise from earlier today--walked alone just like him, searching, trying to understand where they were going.

Dean felt like a rat in a lab, being lead through a maze only by the traces of apples and cheese. He didn't like apples anyway.

He wasn't an inmate in this prison for more than three hours and it already got to his nerves, already made him feel almost completely powerless. He hated putting his faith in other people's hands.

Five minutes later he found himself outside in the prison's yard, the sun beating down the back of his neck in the heat of July and on the dry grass under his feet. He looked around him and saw his new reality - prisoners swamped in blaring orange walking around, some hiding in the shade from the sunlight, some sitting on the benches playing poker, some smoking by the prison wall, and some standing in a line, waiting for... something.

Dean's first instinct was to go join one of the poker games that were being played in the yard, maybe start dealing some cigarettes and learn to get used to prison life, which, at the moment, didn't seem as bad as he thought it would, but all he could think about was keeping his promise to his little brother and making the phone call to Bobby.

Without thinking twice, he took his place in the not-so-long line to the phone boots and stood behind a tall, skinny looking guy.

"Hey," Dean said as he tapped the man's shoulder, making the stranger turn his head towards him, "That's the line to the phones, right?"

The man standing in front of him was tall, _very_  tall, in fact, and although the description of 'big' usually came with 'tall', this was not the case. The man was _tiny_. He was either a twelve year old in the disguise of an old man, or a thirty year old in a disguise of a young kid. His shoulders were narrow, his body thin and slender, and his face structure was rather childish, contributing to the image of a kid in Dean's mind.

"Yep, it sure is," the man smiled goofily and studied Dean's figure. "New fish, huh?" he added, raising his eyebrow while managing to keep the same goofy smile on his face.

"Yeah... Yeah.. Just got here today."

"That's what new fish means, you goose!" the man chuckled and hit Dean lightly on his shoulder, his smile slowly fading when he saw Dean's unamused, unpleasant expression.

"So, uh," the man cleared his throat in embarrassment.

Dean could only fold his arms across his chest and keep his eyebrow raised up to his forehead. This guy was everything he _didn't_  expect from prison.

"Fitzgerald," the inmate introduced himself after a while, handing him his hand to shake.

Dean smirked fondly at the man's gesture before he decided to take it, uncrossing his hands and shaking the little guy's palm.

"Winchester," he said, happy to find out not everyone here were jerks, like his cellmate.

Fitzgerald, wore a big smile in response. "Y'know, there are two more phones in the lunchroom, in case you don't like waiting in line or don't care wasting your eating time on a phone call."

"Oh, thanks," Dean replied, being as nice as he could, "I'll remember that."

Garth gave Dean another smile before he turned to face the line again, leaving Dean to wonder how a guy like him could end up in a prison.

__________________________________________________________________________

"How's a going, Novak?" A voice was heard to Castiel's left, waking him up from his daydreaming. "Heard you got yourself a little cell bitch."

"Yes, I did," Castiel nodded, "and I would like to not speak of it, if you don't mind."

Castiel was in no mood to discuss about the recent events with anyone, especially not with Gordon Walker.

"Is it him over there?" Gordon said and pointed at a distanced figure waiting in the line for the phones.

"Yes, it's him," Castiel confirmed in reluctance, not even trying to create a fruitful conversation with Walker.

"This new fish looks like dead meat, if you ask me," Gordon added scornfully, "I give him one week before he breaks into tears."

"Fortunately, no one asked you, Walker."

Castiel never liked Gordon in the first place, there was something about him that made his blood freeze with hatred and gave him an unexplainable need to punch him in the face, but he was a 'family friend', as Gabriel puts it, so Castiel wasn’t allowed to touch him.

"Well, darling, in that case I am going to ask _you_."

Castiel turned aside to the source of the voice and saw Crowley standing next to him with a new, fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his hand.

"What do you mean by 'going to ask me'? Ask me what?"

"Oh, come on, Novak," Crowley said and took a smoke from his pack. "Show us some of your old man's genes and use your brain a little." Crowley was definitely teasing him, he always did, and for some reason, it was fine with Castiel. Crowley was the only one in this world that was allowed to tease him, except his family.

"Silence, old grunt. Share your intentions," Cas said with a hidden smirk on his lips. Crowley was the one guy he considered to be more of a friend than what he saw the rest of his group as--gang members.

With a grin and a short snort, Crowley motioned Castiel closer so he could whisper into his ear, "I can arrange, perhaps, an incident." And after a long pause combined with a meaningful long look, he added, "If you know what I mean."

"That's an idea," Castiel replied quietly, making sure not to reveal his true feelings about killing his bunkmate. It was prison, and prison was merciless. Showing weakness was off the table in every step of the way to his freedomת, and he was a Novak, which heightened the expectations from him. One little slip up, and he would be done for. "How much would it cost to execute this 'idea', exactly?"

Crowley was maybe some kind of a friend, but he was certainly not free of charge.

"Oh, you know me so well," he pandered sarcastically. "It will cost you seven thousand."

"Seven? Are you delusional? I'm not paying you this amount of money for something you suggested."

"Six then," Crowley hurried to argue, watching Castiel's reaction to his offer. The boy kept quiet for a moment, glaring at Crowley with suspicious eyes.

"Five." Castiel finally said.

"Ha!" The man barked in contempt and let one cigarette slip from the old, tattered pack, placing the smoke in his mouth before lighting it. Crowley took a deep breath from the smoke and growled, "Don't be so funny, boy, you're forgetting that killing a man inside prison can get my arse in a lot of trouble, and I like my arse out of troubles."

"But you like money better," Castiel added almost a joke as soon as Crowley exhaled the smoke he kept in his lungs.

"But I like money better," Crowley agreed with a flattered smile.

"In that case, six will make an agreement."

To the sound of these words, Crowley's smile grew bigger. "Let me know when you decide to act on my offer."

Nodding shortly, Castiel turned to look at the yard. It was comfortably warm at this time of the day, and he wasn't sitting in the shaded area, he could feel a cool breeze blowing through this hair. There was something very home-like in the beginning of the summer, something Castiel couldn't put his finger on exactly. It was the time of the year where the heat started to have more and more presence, started to become more and more noticeable.

"Lend me your lighter, please," Cas muttered, keeping his gaze--as well as his thoughts--on the rest of the yard in front of him.

His eyes wandered around as he tacked the smoke between his lips. There weren't too many new arrivals, maybe twenty, as far as Castiel could count without getting up from his seat. It was rather funny watching them trying to fit in, gather in small groups, or just hanging around like they didn't even know what to do with themselves. Some were acting like there was nothing new in finding the inside of a prison. Some were familiar to Castiel, some he already met and knew.

The proper action would probably be to go and greet them, but Castiel was not in the mood. Lighting his cigarette and inhaling deeply, he tried to focus on the act of smoking rather on how the effect of the heroin was fading away. At the moment he felt like he should have taken some during the new inmates intake, no matter that he knew that if he did, he'd end up regretting it at the end of the week when there won't be enough heroin left. Didn't stop his crave, though. He could feel it itching, making him restless.

When the nicotine reached his brain he spotted his cellmate in the corner of his eye, waiting in line to use the phones.  An inauspicious smile sneaked up his lips as an idea came to his mind. If he won't mess this up and get himself in trouble, it might be the perfect solution; the risk was worth it, he needed a distraction anyway.

He rolled the idea in his mind, staring at his cellmate's back. And then, without a warning, Castiel saw Winchester turning in suspicion as if he was looking for something. Castiel could swear it was like he _knew_  someone was looking at him, it was like he could actually feel it. Intrigued, Castiel kept watching until Winchester's eyes locked on his as if he located the source of, what seems to be, his discomfort.

Castiel needed nothing else--his decision was made, he was going to have fun with this guy.

He stood up, his cigarette held between his fingers, and slowly walked towards the line to the phones, making sure not to cut the eye contact between him and his new bunkmate.

Dean could only stare as this douchebag of a cellmate slowly approached him. He wasn't sure what Novak wanted or _why_  the hell would he even want something from him. Whatever it was, Dean thought, was not going to be good. He could feel the irritation building in him already, and to hell if he was going to just stand there while this asshole was coming at him.

Leaving the line and keeping his eyes on Novak, Dean moved forward. He'll speak with Sammy later.

"What do you want?" Dean barked as they met in the middle. The smile on Novak's face got to him more than he'd like to admit.

Castiel, as a reaction, just took a slow breath from his cigarette and kept glaring at the man in front of him.

"I said, what do you want?" Dean repeated himself, getting tired of this guy's shit.

Instead of answering, Castiel glared at him, his lips curled up like they were hiding a secret, which, of course, made Dean only angrier. And as if it wasn't enough, the bastard exhaled his cigarette smoke right into Dean's eyes, making them burn and tear unwantedly.

"How are you doing, Winchester?" Castiel asked with the same half sided smile Dean wanted to rip straight off his face.

It took all Dean's strength not to reach over and punch him right then and there. He clenched his jaw instead, gathering all the self-control he had at these seconds, and watched him take another breath from his smoke. He didn't forget his promise to call Sam, and he knew he wouldn't be able to do that if he'll get in a fight with him.

"Just thinking about how fun it'd be to smack you right in the face," he said, giving him back a sarcastic smile.

Castiel released his second breath on Dean's face once again. He shrinked his lips, and slowly blew, exhaling the smoke out. He leaned closer to Dean, squinting his eyes and tilting his head to his right, an unpleasant smile appearing as he stared at Dean.

"Then give me your best shot... _boy_." He said.

Trying not to cough, or more like coughing as lightly as he could, Dean swore that if it wasn't for his promise, this guy would have already been laying on the ground by now. The cough got the better of him, and he had to hid his face in the crook of his elbow. When it finally died out, he took a deep breath and toughened himself up. He turned his face to Novak again, not surprised by the proximity, however uncomfortable it made him feel to be this close to the intensity of his eyes.

"I don't think you want me to," he muttered darkly, secretly meaning that he was the one who didn't want to get in a fight. This guy was getting on his very last nerves.

Castiel didn't care much, all he wanted was to reunite with his drug, and he wanted to reunite with it now. Every last shred of logic that was left in him got erased by the need he felt, the yearning that blinded him to do anything in order to get what he wanted. All he wanted was to feel the same rush again, to feel his mind descending into a peaceful haven. His crave consumed him whole.

"Oh, I really do, Winchie, I really do..." Castiel hissed, his eyes revealing a tiny fragment of his temporary insanity, one that did not escape from Dean's sharp perception. It wasn't like he didn't prepare himself for prison after he lost his trial, but nevertheless, it was menacing. Too bad Novak went too far. Right now, Dean had no mercy. Winchie? This guy crossed the line. Not even his promise to call Sam could hold him back.

Dean gave a pissed off smile, looked around and licking his lip casually, like he didn’t have a care in the world, and then, with the snap of his head, his expression, his eyes, the hold of his body, all changed entirely. His last button was finally pushed, and he wasn't willing to hold back any longer.

He drew back an arm, closing his fist and throwing it at the left side of Novak's face, causing a swift, obviously practiced, blow.

Castiel recoiled from the power of the hit. He imagined this guy would be strong, just not _that_  strong. He fell to the ground, the entire right side of his face was throbbing in pain. He touched his nose, where the pain was mostly present, and saw blood on his hand. The bastard broke his nose. Nevermind, though, he got _precisely_ what he wanted.

"GUUUAARDS," he shouted, smiling, despite the pain, "GUARDS!"

The expression on Winchester's face was priceless; the way he locked his eyes on Castiel's, the way the green in his eyes shimmered in the sun, they way they widened when he realised what Castiel was really up to--it was all too good for Castiel, and his smile only grew bigger and bigger.

"It's not what it--" Dean started, but never got the chance to finish as he was pushed down to the ground by one of the guards.

"You're coming with me, puppet," the guard hissed in Dean's ear.

Dean knew he was in trouble. It was only his first day and he got himself in trouble. He promised Bobby and Sam he wouldn't, he promised himself he wouldn't, but apparently he couldn't even do that. He had no self control, but it's not like it was something new, right? After all, if he was able to get a grip he wouldn't have end up here at the first place.

As the guards forced him to stand up, he could see Novak walking away with another guard, his hand on his nose, blood dripping from it and painting everything with red.

 _Good_ , Dean thought to himself. He hated that guy, hated him. He could only think, while the guards hand was on his back, pushing him forward, that this guy deserved to get his eyes puffed. Fuck this guy, just fuck that little weasel shit.

Yet, as the same time, part of him was impressed by his cleverness. Novak got him, he outsmarted him, and unsurprisingly, it only pissed Dean off even more.

"Where are you taking me?" Dean smirked. "I mean, you're handsome and all, but you're not really my type." He couldn't help it, and the honest truth, he didn't really want to anymore. He was already deep in the mud, the least he could do is make the best of it with his usual snarky attitude.

"Shut up!" the guard called and pushed him again.

"You don't need to be so rough on me, babe."

The guard didn't wait--he hit Dean with his club on his back, causing him to fall to his knees from the pain. The guard kicked him down, hitting him on his back for the second time, forcing him to fall and lie on the floor.

"I said--SHUT. UP!" He yelled at Dean before pulling him from the back of his shirt so he'd be able to stand once again.

The rest of the walk was rather quiet since Dean didn't dare speak up anymore, and when they got to a hall filled with dark rooms, he finally asked what this place was.

"The empty rooms. Have fun," he was told as he was shoved to one of them, complete darkness surrounding him.

"Oh, come on, you're not even going to join me?" Dean called as the door closed on him, leaving him alone in a room without a shred of light. “We could hug each other warm!” he shouted behind the shut door. Well, at least he knew why they were called 'the empty rooms'.

As the door got shut before him, he left a long sigh and sat down on the floor, turning his back to rest it against the door. He wondered how long he was gonna be here, how long he was going to be surrounded by this darkness. He wasn't ready to be left alone with his thoughts, he knew where they'd wander off. And as he assumed, the thoughts begged for his attention, pushing in at the back of his mind.

Why was he here? Why was he still trying? Dad was dead and Sam was with Bobby. Was there anything worth fighting for? Is _he_  worth fighting for, after all he's done?

The burden of his actions, his _crime_ , was lying on his shoulders, pressing his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. There were hundreds of different ways he could've handled the situation, but he chose that one. He messed up.

His dad was dead, and it was all because of him.

____________________________________________________________________________

Castiel's face still ached from the blow, he could feel his eyes getting puffy and the blood run down his nose. It was painful, but so fucking worth it; he was being lead to the clinic while Winchester was taken to rot somewhere for the next couple of hours. If he'll manage to sneak to his cell, he'll have all the time in the world to use any amount of heroin he wanted.

As the guard dropped him in the clinic with the doctor, he could feel the need threatening to burst inside of him. If he usually counted and calculated every last grain of his white powder, making sure he'd have enough for the rest of the week, now was one of the times when he simply couldn't care less. He just wanted to feel the same high again.

Castiel didn't care about the beating pain in his face, he didn't care the pain spread to his upper cheek and the corner of his left eye. He didn't care for how messy and bloody he was, he wanted to get out of the clinic as soon as possible. It's not like the doctor was going to help him either way--he'd just clean up his face, give him some weak ass pain killers that wouldn't work on him anyway (his body was already used to a huge amount of chemicals), and send him back. His heart was racing like crazy, his breaths were shallow, and he felt like he was five seconds away from trashing the entire clinic--but this idiotic for a doctor wouldn't stop insisting on cleaning his face.

"It is a minor punch in the face, Doc, I assure you I'm fine," he said impatiently as the wet towel swiped against his hurt nose, "I had much worse than this. You may let me go, I know you hate having me round." Castiel stared at the doctor with squinted eyes and clenched fists - he really didn't want to stay there. "We both know you find me incredibly annoying and how you despise having your coffee time ruined."

The doctor put down the towel and lowered his glasses, considering Castiel's very generous offer to give him back his coffee break.

After a long pause where Castiel could swear the time was stopping, the doctor finally mouthed a thoughtful "Alright, go." Castiel felt his heart racing faster inside him, as if it was possible at this point. "But you're getting yourself clean, and you're definitely not getting a bag of ice to ease the pain. Who knows what you inmates might do with it," the doctor murmured after another long pause.

A smile sneaked onto Castiel's lips, despite the aching pain on the entire left side of his face. He didn't wait for any additional words, he quickly jumped from his chair and turned to leave the clinic. He followed the doctor impatiently as he escorted him out of the room to the area where he was allowed to move freely, whatever 'freely' even meant in this place.

Instead of heading to the yard, he ran towards the cells. He had to move fast before any of the guards caught him; he ignored each beat of pain his quick movements caused him, even if he cared, there was no time to pay attention to them.

The doors were open, as usual for this time of the day, so he didn't stop to think too much, not that he could; the raging crave wouldn't let him. He rummaged through his pillowcase, pulling his precious little bag out, he could feel himself losing his mind. It was there, _he_  was there--all he had to do was find a piece of paper and get this over with.

He sliced a piece of paper from the first source he could find, poured a respectable amount of powder on one of the shelves in the cell, fixed the powder in a thin, long line at the edge of the shelf, rolled the paper he tore, and took a deep breath, preparing himself for his next action. He placed the rolled piece of paper next to his right nostril while shutting his left one (which hurt a lot since his nose was still sensitive to touch), and he lowered his head and snorted heavily, moving along the line in steady paced movements.

That was it, he made it. All he had to do now was to return the bag to his hidden place and wait for the drug to kick in. He did it.

Not one worry went through Castiel's mind as his body slowly rose, levitating, from the ground. All was well, all was better than well. This is all he needed.


	3. Chapter 3

A door burst open and light entered the tenebrous room. After who-knows-how-long of staying in this darkness, Dean's eyes hurt to the sudden exposure of bright synthetic light. Even the shadow of the guard standing at the edge of the door didn't make the transition any easier for Dean, who had to blink more than a couple of times until he managed to straighten his look for the guard.

"Time to go back. Get up."

A female voice echoed around the void of the vacant room. It was rough and cold, almost disgusted, and it fit exactly to how Dean thought he should be spoken to. Although he felt he deserved every bit of it, the loathing in the guard's voice cut him like a knife.

"No need to rush me, hun," he replied as he got up, a sad, flirty smirk peeped in the corner of his lips, "I like to take my time when I'm with a woman."

Guard Greene didn't seem like she was finding any of it funny, the opposite was the truth; she looked pissed off and unamused, tired of prisoners' snarky comments about her being a good lay.

"You're new, so I'll take it easy on you," she drawled, "Comments like this gain you a whole day in solitary. Say another word and I'm throwing you there for two. If you think The Empty Rooms were fun, you would love solitary."

Staring at the guard and gulping loudly, Dean swore to himself to keep quiet for the first time today. Getting a punishment was bad enough, but being thrown to solitary on his first day was the worst idea he could come up with.

"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am," he whispered as he let the guard put her handcuffs on him. He could feel how she closed the cuffs too tight in his wrists, hurting him unnecessarily.

"Good." She added and pulled the cuffs to make sure they weren't escapable, "Let's roll."

Silently they walked around the prison walls, seeing only another guard or two on their way back. Each of them bursted out laughing when they saw him chained and led by guard Greene, and with no other inmates around to make him feel like he was not the only one left in these halls, he felt isolated and excluded.

"Did you really have to tighten them that hard?" he asked bitterly.

"Actually, I didn't have to use the cuffs in the first place, you just pissed me off." Greene spat with a growing, satisfied smile on her face.

"So this is why they're laughin'?" Dean took a short glimpse toward the last guard they saw, who was still chuckling and shaking his head.

"Pretty much. Yeah," she added with a chuckle. "They're laughing at your stupidity for even attempting something. It's your walk of shame, Winchester. Better be thankful all the other inmates are in their cells."

Dean sighed and licked his lips, the urge to run his fingers through his hair was starting to itch at him. He felt awkward and uncomfortable. Maybe he really should thank his luck for not being seen by the other prisoners when ‘s being led like this.

Five minutes later, Dean was standing in front of the metal door that he recognised as the door to his cell, and it certainly wasn't thrilling for him, not even one bit. He waited patiently for the guard to release him from his handcuffs and unlock the door, happy to let her take her time with him just so he won't have to be alone again with Novak.

"On a second thought, solitary sounds kinda nice," he said with an obvious bitterness in his voice, and rubbed his hurt wrists.

"Not even day one and you already got the Novak effect. I feel you, inmate," Greene replied with a short chuckle before her expression turned serious again, "But try not to punch him again. It wouldn't end well for you."

"What do you mean?"

"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked and rose her eyebrow.

Dean looked at her, confused, intrigued, and not exactly sure he wants to know what she had to say. "No, I'm not," he whispered under his breath, secretly thinking he's not from around _anywhere_. He didn't have a place he belonged in since he was a little kid, didn't have a place to call home since his mother died.

Greene smiled as if she was proud for her sharp perception. "The Novaks are a big criminal family here, Winchester, and this is their son. You don't want to mess with any of them. Trust me on this."

And with those words, guard Greene opened the door to the cell and let Dean in, closing it behind him with pitiful eyes.

Just like the first time he walked in this cell, Dean found Castiel lying on the upper bunk - the only difference this time was that his cellmate seemed like he was caught up in a deep slumber. A sigh of relief escaped from Dean as he thanked his luck once again for not having to deal with him after all that happened. He did not feel like having the same pair of blue eyes staring at him with that victorious glimmer.

Although he was glad Novak wasn't awake, he couldn't stop himself from peeking at his sleeping figure. He glared at him, saw his chest rising and sinking peacefully in an even rhythm. After guard's Greene warning, a shred of fear sneaked into his heart, causing him to ask himself how dangerous this guy really was and how he'd manage to survive with a person like this as a bunkmate. Even the guard seemed a little afraid of his family and him. Maybe he should be, too?

Despite the black eye Dean left on Novak, his face was pleasant and calm, almost easeful. The asshole Dean met was gone when he was peaceful like that. It was like his personality corrupted those gentle facial features, and by shutting it down and putting it to sleep, his true form was revealed. Dean had to admit, this guy, even with a puffed-up eye, was handsome - beautiful, even. For a guy, of course.

As Dean shook the last thought from his mind, he noticed Novak was mumbling under his breath. At first he thought he woke him up, which scared the living hell out of him; the last thing he wanted was Novak to wake up. But then, after another quick glance, he realised that even if Novak was awake, he didn't notice he was there at all. Could Novak be a sleep talker? Dean decided to take a step back, not willing to find out exactly which it was.

Instead of easing up, Dean noticed Novak was shifting in his place, eyes flickering shut. His voice got louder, giving the words some emphasis despite the way they were rambled on his tongue. Dean swore he had a little heart attack, which only made him want to take another step back and forget he was sharing the same cell with him in the first place, but Novak's words got clearer, and as the seconds flew away, Dean couldn't fight the curiousity and his urge to listen.

He took a slow step forward and leaned closer to the sleeping prisoner, trying to decipher his whispers into words.

"It takes the truth to fool me," Novak uttered sleepily, too calm to speak louder than a whisper, completely unaware he was being listened to. "And now you've made me angry."

Dean rose from his ducked position and stared with doubtful eyes at the not-so-sleeping man. His mumbling had a weird rhythm to it. He wasn't talking. Was he... _singing_?

"I can't decide whether you should live or die." Castiel softly muttered and mumbled under his breath. He sang the words lazily and out of tune. He wasn't singing for anyone, it was just him and the imaginary music in his mind. "Oh, you'll probably go to heaven."

Dean took a step back, the step he should have taken in the first place, long before he found out Novak wasn't really asleep. He was singing. He was singing to himself, for Christ sake, and he was completely out of it. Yet, he couldn't not hear Novak's voice anymore, it was a lot louder than before, it was like Novak was rising up from a dream.

" _Please don't hang your head and cry. No wonder why..._ "

The words engraved on Dean, making him wish he could leave the cell immediately. He didn't want to be there, didn't want to be anywhere near this guy, didn't want to be in this place anymore. He wished he took Bobby's offer and fled the country when he had the chance to do so. He was creeped to the very dark corners of his soul and he wanted out.

" _My heart feels dead inside. It's cold and hard and petrified._ "

The more Dean watched, the more he realised there was something off about Novak, and it wasn't his usual insanity, it was something else entirely. He looked like he was living on a different planet, he looked like he was delusional.

"Dude, are you high or just insane?" Dean asked in a rough, strong voice, waking his cellmate from whatever hallucination he was in.

Castiel blinked once or twice until he was able to focus his sight on the man in front of him.

"Slightly." He muttered viciously.

"Slightly what?"

Castiel pulled himself up into a sitting position, gawking gloomily at Winchester's wondering eyes.

"Both," he finally said after a while, not caring enough to give away more than one word at a time. He was too high too care.

"That's just great," Dean found himself complaining, "Over everything, you're a druggie too."

Castiel squinted in this displeasment and tensed up. He devoted himself so much to how the drug made him feel, he forgot all about what bad news Winchester was for him.

"Watch your words, Winchester," he hissed in a thunderous voice, warning him not to cross any lines he didn't want to cross.

Dean had to remind himself of Greene's advice - _you don't want to mess with any of them_  - he guessed it included their son as well. How powerful were the Novaks that a guard felt threatened enough to advise him to keep quiet around him?

"I'll try my best, your majesty, Heart Queen," Dean blurted and rolled his eyes. Even if Novak was dangerous, he would not bow to him, no matter how the feeling of his silent singing managed to burn deep inside his skin and leave him terrified.

"I don't recall asking to off with your head."

The answer made Dean release a smothered, half-suppressed laugh. It was more sad than funny, actually, and no longer than a minute passed before he added darkly, "I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

Castiel's laugh was tired. A goofy smile, which was consistent with him being high, spread all across his face. He prefered not responding further than that. Crowley's offer was still there in the background, running through his mind. So instead, he gazed at Dean, barely able to focus on his standing figure.

Dean’s eyes traveled across Castiel's features with repulsion in his stomach, only now realising just how high he was. He was dazed, utterly smashed, high as fuck. He could easily be a junkie for all Dean knew.

"I suppose there's no need to warn you not to share this information with others," Castiel threatened. It was a basic knowledge for anyone in this prison that he used drugs, but it did not mean he needed the rumour to take a louder tone and reach the Warden's ears. He succeeded keeping it out of the boards' knowing for years, there's no reason he'd fail now.

"Don't worry," Dean spat and sat on his bed, ignoring his cellmate as much as he could. The guy was a nightmare when he was sober, he didn't want to imagine what he was like drugged. "I'll keep your dirty little secret. I don't want to get shanked in my sleep."

"You are not going to get shanked in your sleep," Castiel guaranteed Dean and returned to stare at the ceiling above him. "Then it will become too obvious and I'll be held responsible."

Dean shifted uncomfortably on his mattress. That was not reassuring at all. None of it; not the fact that he was part of a huge criminal family, not the part where he was an insane druggie, and most certainly not the so-called-promise he wouldn't get shanked in his sleep.

Castiel, on the other hand, was free of all the worries of this world. He let the feeling of being invincible wash all over him. It felt like his body was spinning in one place, floating above the thin mattress, above this cell, above this prison, above any Earthly attachment. His eyes felt heavy, and he didn't stop fighting to keep himself awake. Falling asleep was nice every once in awhile, but it felt like a waste - he didn't want to miss a thing. His eyes, barely open, never left the ceiling.

"For how long were you gone?" Castiel heard himself asking, wondering how much of the heroin's effect he already wasted.

"I don't know. I lost count of time in there."

"You are very lucky. If I'm not mistaken the times, you were there for less than two hours," Cas said after a short ponder. "You're new. They are probably giving you the time to adjust. Not many get this privilege."

"Yeah, lucky me..."

"I hoped you'd get longer. Now it seems I made you punch me for vain," Castiel blurted and moved his hand to touch the swollen parts of his face. He almost forgot all about the punch he received earlier - the heroin had a habit of making him do that. Now, that he was thinking about it, his nose did feel kind of numb and the sight in his left eye was practically gone. It wouldn't have happened if he had insisted on the bag of ice. "That was a fair blow, what you did to me," Cas mentioned as it was a casual thing, "Where did you learn to punch like that?"

Dean wasn't sure whether he should feel proud or angry that he asked that question. He knew he was an awesome puncher, but it wasn't like he was willing to share his entire life story with that druggie, especially not when half of it was made out of some crazy fantasy TV show shit like Buffy or even _Ghost Whisperer_  for crying out loud. Dean could picture it, almost laughing at the idea of Sam trying to guide those damn life suckers into the light. Burn 'em 'till they're gone, was what dad used to say, and well, dad was right.

Dean clenched his jaw to the memory of his dad. The memories were like leechers stuck to his skin, sucking on him and not letting him go no matter how hard he pulled. And it wasn't like forgetting about them was much of an option, but it doesn't mean he wasn't going to try.

"The hard way," he sighed, deciding to be honest without telling anything at all.

"We all did."

Dean heard the answer shot back at him. It wasn't like he expected any kind or compassionate words, yet the answer still surprised him. He wasn't used to it, apparently, the little he did tell to others about his life was always being followed with words of charity such as 'I'm sorry', 'I won't mention it again', or his absolute favourite 'If you ever need to talk...'. He hated being pitied, and this was a comfortable response, for a change.

The next few minutes were silent; Dean was in his bunk, facing the metal springs of the top bunk, and Castiel was just lying in his bed and trying to forget the world existed, which was not very hard for him considering how high he was at that moment.

It didn't take long until he started humming and singing again; the same slow pace of tired and wary whispers, and for some reason Dean no longer opposed to them. It's not like the words stopped creeping him out ('Does he really have to sing _that_  song?' he thought to himself), quite the opposite - they made the hair on the back on his neck stand like someone was blowing a cold shivering breeze at him - but Dean always found comfort in music. Music was the one thing that kept him sane in the last two months, aside from huge amounts alcohol and keeping himself busy by helping Bobby out in the garage, but he had none of it here. He didn't even get a radio device and earbuds yet, and it's not like he expected the nearby stations to have an A plus taste in music; they’ll all probably play the usual trash that kids Sammy's age listen to these days.

Before Dean could get used to the soothing ambience in the cell, the bell was heard loud and clear, and made his heart jump for a second. This time, the awful sound didn't catch him in total surprise, he was starting to recognise it by now.

His bunkmate was carefully jumping off his bed in a state of imbalance, and stood right in front of the door with the same army position he used before. Dean didn't need to be told this time, and he quietly joined Novak, not saying a word to avoid another fight. The guy was high, who knew what might set him off this time?

Little did he know that with heroin it was the other way around - the effect of it made everything go above Castiel's head. He didn't care for a thing, he was peaceful, happy, living in his own world. It was the fading of the effect and the craving that made Castiel lose the ground below his feet. Although... some would argue otherwise.

* * *

 

The first thing Dean did when he got to the lunchroom was check for the phone that that skinny prisoner, Fitzgerald, spoke of back at the yard, and it wasn't too hard to find. It was just outside the room, near the entrance door of the cafeteria, at the right side in the corner. Almost completely private once everyone sat down with their trays full of food at the squared tables.

Dean stood in front of the phone, heart beating like crazy. There was no-one stupid enough as he was to pass lunch time for a phone call, so he found himself standing by himself and as long as you were capable of ignoring the talking noises from the dining area, it was quiet. He took the phone in his left hand, and dialed the numbers he taught himself to remember by heart.

He leaned against the wall near the phone station, the cord curled around his finger as he listened to the distant ringing. The phone pressed against his ear felt cold while the heavy breaths that got trapped between the tube and his face warmed his cheek. He hadn’t had to use a public phone in years.

"Dean..?" he heard Bobby's voice after a while.

"Bobby," he said with relief, so glad to hear a familiar, friendly voice for a change. "It's so good to hear you."

The sound of the old man's voice almost made him feel like he was with him again, with Sammy. Back home again. The last two months in Bobby's felt, whether he'd like to admit or not, like home. Home again. No matter how much he resisted calling Bobby's 'home', the word got itself attached to the place. It was his home now, even if he didn't deserve it.

"It's good to hear your voice, too, boy," Bobby sighed after a while, "Sam and I were wondering when you'd eventually call us."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," Dean said and placed a hand on the back of his neck, scratching it in embarrassment. "I didn't really have the time 'till now."

Dean shrunk in the corner, hearing the rattle of dishes and laughs in the distance. He did have the time, he did have an opportunity to call them earlier, but instead of keeping up with his promise not to get in trouble, he acted like the ungrateful son of a bitch he usually was and did exactly the one thing Sammy asked him not to do. He got himself in trouble.

"How are you doing so far?" Bobby's voice asked from the other side of the phone.

"All good. Got a prick for a cellmate - which is awesome," Dean said sarcastically with a sad smile. Who knows how long he'd have to take it with Novak's shit. He barely knew him for five hours and he already lost his control because of him, the damn dickhead.

"They all are. Bet yours ain't nothing special."

"Oh, I wish..."

There was a silence at both ends of the line for a few moments. Bobby didn't know what else to say, and Dean rolled the word 'they' in his mind. He was part of 'they' now, wasn't he? He is one of the scums and the criminals who needed to be locked away for good. He was one of those 'they'.

"Anyway," Dean said, cutting off the uncomfortable silence between them, "How's Sammy?"

"Pretty much the same since yesterday."

Dean clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a brief second. He knew it'd be like this, but somewhere deep down, he still had hope something will be different.

"Nightmares?"

"Worse. You losing the trial didn't do him any good, son."

"Shit..." Dean sighed. He wished he could do something, he wished he could go back in time and... And do what? Run away like Bobby asked him to do?

"Can I talk to him?" he asked with hesitation, hoping Bobby wasn't going to dump a long preach on him about how he should have listened to him.

"Are you really asking? The idjit’s asked me about this call eight times since yesterday. He'd kill me if I said no."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Dean listened as the phone was put down on a hard surface, Bobby shouting Sam's name in the background and calling him to pick up the phone, probably running around the house to get him. It brought a smile to Dean's face, just imagining the situation. The honest truth was that he'd like to be there if he could.

The noises coming from the phone and the dining area weren't enough to occupy his mind, and found himself questioning himself. Bobby told him to run, he practically yelled at him to flee and never return. Sam begged him to, said he'd join him on the road, he _wanted_  to come with. _Just the two of us and your car_ , he used to say, _I can live on the road, Dean, I really can. Just please get out of here while you still can_. Dean never said yes, didn't even took a minute to consider this, not once. Sam wasn't built for the road, he deserved to have the life he always dreamed of. And besides, how could Dean run away after Bobby paid for his bail, and no matter how badly Dean insisted he wouldn't, the old man just told him to can it. Dean wasn't running away, it wasn't in his bones to do so.

"Dean!" Sam’s excited voice smashed Dean back to Earth.

"Sammy!" Dean's smile returned to his face, bigger and happier than before, "How are you doing? Bobby picked you some good school yet?"

"It's July, Dean, there's no school on summer vacation."

Dean could bet his own car Sam was rolling his eyes as he said that.

"And of course you would know that, you nerd."

"It's a common knowledge. You'd know that too if you..."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean cut Sam off before he had the chance to finish his sentence, "You're still a huge nerd, you know."

"Ugh. Shut up." Sam called.

And, yes, Dean thought to himself, that kid was _definitely_  rolling his eyes at him.

"So..." Sam started again, "How's prison? Did you make someone drop the soap for you yet?"

Dean chuckled a little. "Oh, of course," he said sarcastically, "I'm having a blast here." There was an obvious grin in his voice that could be heard over the telephone line, yet, if Sam saw him, he would easily recognise the sadness in his smile.

"How are you holding up? You doing okay?" Dean forced himself to ask, trying as hard as he could not to give it all up, but there was no escape from his little brother who knew him too well to let hints such as this slide.

"I'm handling," Sam said shortly, caring about his brother more than about himself. He reasoned it by saying his nightmares and longing aren't equal to his brother losing his freedom. What Dean needed right now was to take care of himself, and Sam was determined not to give him a reason to worry about him. "How are you holding up?" He asked eventually.

"I'm awesome. People here are just..." Dean joked, he tried to think of a verb to describe the people here, and couldn't find one. He blamed his cellmate on this - he was beyond everything he has ever encountered with.

"Awesome?" Sam laughed when he saw Dean was hanging with completing his thoughts.

"Yeah," Dean said bitterly, smiling sadly at the memory of his brother's laugh. "Awesome..."

There was moment there where the line fell silent. Both Sam and Dean knew a conversation neither of them wanted was coming, and it was obvious Sam was gonna push it in that direction.

"Listen, Dean," Sam started, filling the air with his concern and frustration. This wasn't going to be easy, and Dean knew it. He didn't understand in the first place why his brother had to bring unresolved issues up to the surface; maybe some things were just meant to stay unresolved. "We need to talk."

"No, Sammy, we don't." Dean cut him, holding on to the tiny hope his brother will listen to him for a change and let things go.

"We actually do." Sam’s frustration was clear as day. The poor guy has probably hold on to this for a very long time.

Dean sighed and rest his head against the wall, eyes closed in a hope it will be over before he notices.

"No, we don't. I lost the trial. I probably deserve it and that's it. There's nothing to be done about it."

"I don't know, Dean, I don't know what hell this is we're doing. It feels like everything is wrong. This is not how things should be. You are not supposed to be in prison. You’re supposed to be with Bobby and me."

"Sam," Dean warned, "There’s really no reason to talk about this. It won't change anything. What's done is done."

"But there is!" Sam called, frustrated by his brother. "There is something to be done, but you're so stuck inside this guilt you're feeling, you don't care to see the objective truth!"

"I damn deserve feeling guilty, Sammy. The court itself decided I belong in here."

"They only reached this conclusion because you wouldn't let us help! You didn't want to run, that's one thing, but if you just had let me..."

"No!" Dean snapped at Sam, stopping him from saying all the things he didn't want to hear. "We talked about this, and I said no. You just past sixteen and there’s no way in hell I'd let you go up to the stand. I don't want you to testify. You want to have a retrial, fine by me! You'll end up with the same result, but I sure am not going to stop you. Do whatever you want, but you're not going up to the stand and that's final."

" _We_ talked about this?" Sam growled, infuriated, "It was more like you said if I dare go up the stand, you'll plead guilty. It wasn't much of a conversation, Dean, it was an ultimatum. We tried it your way, and it didn’t-.."

"Sam, stop it. You're not going up to the stand, I don't care what you have to say."

"But why?"

"Because I said so, that's why."

"You're not dad! Just because he's not around, doesn't mean you can boss me around! And guess what? You're not around anymore, too!"

A sudden silence fell between the two brothers as they realised what was just said. Sam regretted his words a second later, and Dean clenched his jaw and let the guilt fill him whole. If it wasn't bad enough Dean took Sam's father away, he now wasn’t there anymore to protect him. He wasn't there anymore to take care of him. He was useless. It didn't matter how many times they had this discussion, it was always hard when dad came up in it. It was like someone punched him in the chest so hard, the blow was still there hours later.

Sam's dad was gone, and now he was out of his life, too.

"Listen, Sammy, I gotta go. I'll talk to you as soon as I can, okay?" Dean promised, trying to find an escape from this argument and away from Sam as quickly as possible.

"Dean," Sam started, his voice more soft and welcoming now, "I shouldn't ha.."

"No." Dean stopped him, he didn't want to hear his apologies - Sam wasn’t the one who owed an apology of any kind. It was him. This mess was all his fault, and he couldn't handle this any longer.

"I'm hanging up now. Bye, Sam." he said and hung the phone back in its booth, his head still facing the wall as if it will help everything go away.

Dean thought calling Sam and Bobby will do him well. It didn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Can't Decide - Scissor Sisters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0EBOFL_VwE)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was important for us (well, mostly me) to publish the fourth chapter before I move in and start my high education at the university up north. I would like to thank three people in particular who were a huge support to me in the period of writing the third and fourth chapter; the lovely [castiel-brother-of-erikas](http://castiel-brother-of-erikas.tumblr.com/), [theincarnatefireofhell](http://theincarnatefireofhell.tumblr.com/), and [wizard-fallen-angel](http://wizard-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/). Thank you all!

Work in prison, as Dean had to find out, was insufferable. The most humiliating and tiresome jobs were offered to him, so out of all the horrible options he was being presented with, he chose the least horrible one - laundry.

Dean knew there were other jobs, better jobs, out there, but he was new meat with no connections what-so-ever. There was no reason he'd ever be allowed to even _dream_  about one of those. He heard over lunch someone mentioning a job as a mechanic, a mention that made his head jump up with hope and surprise, yet he knew better than thinking of getting this job. He'd lie, though, if he said he didn't dream of being picked by the slim chance of a temporary error.

At the end of his working hour, exhausted and sweaty, Dean marched inside the halls together with every other inmate in this prison, getting inside the cell he recognised as his. The cell, thank God, was empty, so Dean had a few peaceful moments to crash on his bottom bunk and sigh tiredly. He didn't want to see another pair of dirty underwear ever again.

Castiel walked in minutes after him, his eyes red and body hanging with weariness.

"Get up," Novak's voice muttered near Dean, a hand nudging at him to open his eyes and wake him up. "We must stand by our beds when the doors are being closed."

Dean knew it wasn't Novak's fault he had to force Dean to stand up, but it was much easier to blame all his built irritation on his shitty bunkmate who gave him yet _another_  nudge, for crying out loud.

"I'm up, I'm up, Jesus..." Dean growled, "I got it. Stand by the bed. God damn it, has anyone told you how annoying you are?"

"You'd be surprised," Castiel answered shortly, not adding too much tone to his voice. Maybe it was the tiredness he shared with Dean, maybe it was something else, or maybe he simply didn't care.

Both of them stood near their beds; Dean on the left end of the two bunks, near the entrance door, and Castiel at the right, close to the wall, almost at the corner.

One of the guards Dean was yet to recognise ("How many of them are in here?" he thought to himself) gave a quick glimpse at the two, pressed twice on his counting device in his hand, and shut the door, moving on to the next cell.

Dean fell back to his bunk immediately after they were left alone. He was grateful this wretched day was almost over, and even more grateful for the one hour recess they were given mandatory in their cell. His cellmate, on the other hand, acted as if the concept of "rest" was not part of his dictionary. He paced around the room nervously, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand.

The smell of cigarettes wasn't strange to Dean, yet the way the smoke filled the room with its pungent smell was just another thing Dean hated about his cellmate. Novak didn't stop marching back and forth in their tiny, near the edge of claustrophobic, cell, which tested Dean's patience - something he didn't have much of for this guy.

"Will you stop? You’re driving me freaking insane," Dean complained in an annoyed voice.

"Very unfortunate to hear, Winchester," Castiel replied out of his daze in a robotic, uncaring tone.

"Just lie down or something, for fuck’s sake," Dean hissed with a roll of his eyes.

"I don't think you're in a position to boss me around."

"I'm not bossing you around!" Dean almost barked at Novak. What was with him that managed to push every last button he had?

"You certainly attempt to," Castiel said calmly, taking another deep breath from his cigarette, "And you should be careful."

Dean felt a shiver going up his spine. He didn't forget guard Greene's warning about Novak and his family. 'You don't want to mess with any of them', she said. Was she right?

A sudden silence filled the thick air between the two, only interrupted by the sound of Castiel's paced steps and the breaths he was taking from his smoke.

"Are you always like that?" Boldly, Dean asked and straightened his look at Novak, who just returned a stare with his blue, piercing eyes.

"Not when I have a cellmate, that's for sure."

Dean couldn't explain the look Novak had in his eyes, it was like thunder, it was like there was a wall where a soul usually was supposed to be. It was uncomfortable and, if Dean had to be honest with himself, it scared him to the very deep ends of his soul.

"So it's a yes," he snorted, ignoring the feeling he had in his gut.

"It wasn't a no," Novak said, and moved away, tucking his cigarette back between his lips.

Dean, who hasn't forgotten the recent events in the yard, clenched his fists into tight balls."You're a huge dick, aren't you? A druggie, annoying, selfish, dick," Dean hissed with hatred clear and obvious in his voice.

Castiel stopped pacing at once, his back still turned on Dean. A good thing it was, though, since for a split second, a painful sadness was revealed behind Castiel's eyes. The inmate's words sliced him like a knife, like a cold bucket of ice was dumped on his head and washed him frozen. He dropped the burning cigarette on the floor, ignoring it completely, and turned around to look at Dean, his eyes already changed to something different, something bad... Dean thought it was the look of someone who was ready to kill.

"Oh, and you think you are better than me?" Castiel asked with the hiss of his voice, taking slow steps towards Dean, his cigarette long forgotten on the floor below his feet. "People who get here don't usually have a two years sentence. What you did, Winchester, it is _bad_."

Novak was right, Dean thought to himself, he did get a long sentence ahead of him, and his crime was long beyond forgivable, but Dean was not going to give this asshole the satisfaction of proving him right. He gulped loudly instead, nails digging inside his palm, and with a low, steady voice, he said, "Whatever I did is none of your Goddamn business, Novak." He hated this guy. He hated him.

"Was it your family? I bet you did it for your family. You look like the type," Castiel continued, drawing power from the pissed off expression on Dean’s face. "Did you rob a bank to save your dying mother?" Castiel sneered and tried not to laugh when the prisoner got up from his bunk and stood in front of him, probably thinking he was giving him some kind of warning., like that would ever work. "Killed a guy to get your dad off a mobster's debt?"

"Don't you dare talk about my dad!" Dean said in a loud voice, almost shouting the words at the smug inmate in front of him.

"Do I sense a sensitive spot?" Castiel chuckled viciously at the reaction of mentioning the guy's father.

"Shut it, Novak."

But Castiel wasn't ready to shut up.

"Was your father a drunk?" he asked cheerfully while Dean jumped at him, shoving his high ass into the wall and pinning him there by the shoulders.

But Castiel didn't care, he just kept going. It was like he was getting some sick satisfaction from the situation.

"Did he beat up your mom?"

"Novak, I said shut up."

Dean's voice was low and dangerous, a warning for what might come up if Novak keeps going.

"Did he fuck your little sister in your sleep? Did he beat you up?"

"You know nothing about my dad, you sick bastard!" Dean snarled and moved an arm to the prisoner's throat, wanting more than anything for him to just shut up.

"Did you kill him for what he's done?" Castiel gloated at him, eyes wide and dead behind the mask of the deep blue, and Dean noticed. Dean noticed and he could swear that those eyes will never cease to freak him out. He leaned closer to the owner of those eyes, and a filter of pure red covered Dean’s sight. He was on the edge on demanding blood, his arm was already pressing harder than he meant on Castiel's windpipe.

"Novak, I swear to God, if you say one more word..." He whispered, green meeting the blue with a shared hatred.

“But did you?” Novak asked again, voice croaked and eyes smirking when his lips couldn’t.

Dean’s expression showed his true feeling, his jaw clenched as his anger transferred bit by bit to the fingers closing on Castiel’s throat. Dean could feel his hands digging further into the guy’s skin. He was watching him, and despite how he could barely breathe, Dean still saw him switching from an intrigued and confused look, to a shocked expression, like a sudden realisation finally struck him.

"You did..." Castiel whispered in a croaked voice, choking and begging for air, "You killed your dad..." A growing smile appeared on his face that Dean could only describe as 'completely insane'. "I bet you did! This is what you are here for!"

Dean was unable to handle it. This guy deserved to be fucking punched, he deserved to have his face all messed up and his nose broken, and he deserved to get beaten again until he cries for help. As this thought ran through his mind, the pressure he had on Novak's throat got more and more alarming, and for some reason, it didn't seem to bother the guy. Instead of scrambling and gasping for air in a pleading, Novak wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist, and started pressing, hard, hurting him and disabling his hand for a short moment.

Castiel used Dean's temporary paralysis to lock his hold on him and pull him away from him with his other hand, finally breaking free from his choking hold.

Dean backed away in shock, he didn't expect Novak to be as strong as he was, or as trained as he was. He thought the guy was just a spoiled brat, maybe he should have thought otherwise. Maybe he should have expected and calculate the guy's traits differently.

Castiel didn't let Dean recover from the surprise of his escape, and punched him with an angry fist, shifting half his body during the blow in order to cause a greater damage. His punch made Dean lose his balance and back away with trembling feet. Blood was dripping on the floor and colouring it with clear red.

One of the things Castiel's brother, Michael, taught him when he first learned how to fight, was that after giving a good punch, there is nothing better than seeing blood on the back on your hand, feeling the pain in your bones, and knowing for a fact that the guy you just punched has it much, much worse. Castiel to this day never understood why was that supposed to make him feel invincible.

"It seems like now we evened the equation," Castiel blurted and got closer to the dark blonde man, "too bad I have no intentions of keeping it that way." And with an obvious smirk, Castiel kicked Dean in his stomach, forcing him to trip on the bottom bunk.

Dean knew he had to recover quickly or he'd end up getting beat, and with what he learned so far about Novak, he wasn't sure it wouldn't be to death. So in lack of any other choice, he found himself ignoring the pain and getting up from his bed as fast as he could, only a second early to duck Novak's next punch.

Dean could see the fist aiming to his jaw, he could see it coming and he could see the pure hatred in its owner's face, but he was well trained by his dad. It didn't take too much effort on his behalf to avoid the fist. He moved to his right, watching with surprise as Novak's clenched hand moved in front of his eyes.

Dean knew, missing the target takes three times the energy of a successful attack, and avoiding one takes none at all. He'd be damned if he was going to miss this opportunity to return Novak a favour. Dean didn't let Novak recover from the realisation of his miss, and sent a blow to his face.

Castiel didn't take the hit quite well; he stumbled a few feet back, watching the rage on his cellmate’s expression and gently touching his already puffed face as he balanced himself again. Now he could add his bottom lip to the list of bleeding parts he had in his body (all caused by Dean, so it seems). He licked it, tongue slowly cleaning the traces of blood away and letting the taste of hard metal fill his mouth. Little did he know that by the time the guards will open the cell, he'll have many other areas and places to add to that list.

"You killed your own father, Winchester," Castiel said in a low, careless voice, "There's no amount of rage in the world that will redeem you from that."

If Dean was able to calm himself after beating the prick in the face, it was no longer the case. He charged in, fists lifted up in the air in a demand for blood. He wanted the asshole lying on the floor, curled up to a ball as he pleading him to stop. There was this part of him, the anger of mourning, that just wanted to let it all out. He's been carrying it for too long now. He was angry he lost the trial, he was angry he lost his father, he was angry at his father for leaving him, and he was angry at himself for killing him. He thought he got over this anger two weeks ago when he smashed his car to pieces, but now, after being _here_ , after having to deal with all of it all over again, and in prison, this bastard was saying what he told himself to begin with, what he never needed to hear out loud. The guilt was biting him, his rage was bursting in him, so what better person was there to take it all out on?

Castiel didn't let Dean fulfill his wishes, and caught the clenched fist in his palm, like a ball, right in the middle of the swing.

Although Dean was caught up in surprise, he didn't pause for a moment, a second swing was sent to Novak's face, but just as the first one was caught between the guy's fingers, so did the second one.

Dean rose his look and stared at the blue eyes in front of him, he wasn't sure what he saw in them, but he knew it wasn't right. In the white of his eyes were red blood vessels distorting the true colour of the sclera, the blue seemed deep and meaningless, there were bags around his eyes, and obvious fatigue reflected from them. His eyes looked like an abandoned house; a place that once was filled with life, but after the last tenant left the place, no one returned. There was something missing in those eyes.

Castiel strengthened his hold on Dean, and slowly shifted his palms down, exposing Dean's wrists and causing him to fall to his knees. He let go of one of his hands, and before Dean knew it, a clenched palm met his cheek, throwing him to the ground for good. Yet, Dean wasn't ready to give up. He knew that if he'd roll over in front of Novak now, that'll make him dead in this prison, teased and used and laughed at. There was one thing he knew - if he was gonna go out, he was gonna go out fighting and with every last shred of dignity he had in him.

He saw Castiel leaning above him, preparing to punch him again. So instead of trying to push it back, Dean watched patiently, and as he did, he squared his shoulders and placed his feet on the ground, waiting for Novak's hand, waiting for it to come close enough. As it finally did, he rolled to his side, dodging the fist and letting the floor take the hit for him. As he turned to lie on his back again, he decided it was time to put manners aside and give Novak what he deserved. Dean didn't give Castiel a chance to prepare another hit; he placed his arms on the floor, helping himself to raise his back from the ground, and when Novak turned to look at him - he striked. He lifted his leg kicked the guy, as hard as he could, right between his legs.

Dean didn't wait to watch Novak's eyes getting wider and wider from the pain, he didn't have the pleasure to see him reaching his hands to hold the aching area, and he didn't have the chance to see him falling on the floor. Dean decided to be smart about this. He got up and turned to Novak again.

"You..." Castiel choked through his pain in shock. He expected a lot of things, but he did not expect getting kicked in his groin. The area hurt like hell, he did not believe this much pain could come from one particular place in his body.

Dean looked down at the fallen cellmate with merciless eyes. He wanted to hurt him.

"If it was your father who taught you to fight like that," Castiel growled, not giving up on taunting his cellmate, not even from the bottom of the floor, "then maybe he deserved to be killed by his own son."

"Shut up!" Dean yelled and kicked the man in his stomach again and again, blinded by pure wrath and hatred. "I said shut up!"

Castiel was partially paralysed, his body bent to protect his stomach and torso from the non stopping beating and kicking. He was completely submissive to his bunkmate's mercy, which wasn’t exactly available for him right now. All he was left to do was to lie near Dean's feet and wait for the next kick to come. There was no point in begging.

Dean could have easily stopped there, but there was something so dazing and pain-numbing in giving in to his anger and beating the same figure again and again. It was like Dean was detached from his own body; his own actions and movement were someone else's, and Dean just let them take full control. Yet, the satisfaction was his and his alone. It was so easy, forgetting who he is and what he was, and just letting himself do as his body demands. It was relieving. Finally, a relief.

At those moments, he didn't care, nor gave a shit about Castiel. He was nothing but a douchebag. Fuck him. So he sent another kick, and another, this time it was aimed to the most hurtful place in the stomach. The groans he heard were like an approval he was hitting the right spot, so he kicked again, sending all his rage through his feet. And then again. And again.

He wanted to give this fucker something to remember.

Dean saw the guy growling and moaning in pain, coughing more and more blood with each kick he received, but instead of accepting it as a sign to stop, he drew more encouragement out of it. He was so lost in his grief, in his rage, that there was nothing to see. The guy under his feet was getting numb and his vision was only a blurt of randomly mixed colours. The guy was helpless and hurt, and Dean could not see any of it. There was a strange buzz in his ears, and he could swear it was in his eyes, too. If he could have give it a colour, he'd pick black. Or red. Or maybe even a variety of strong colours, the kind that hurts your eyes just by thinking of them.

And through those buzzing sounds and colours, through the haze of his mind, Dean saw the bleeding prisoner mouthing unclear words. He didn't hear them, and for a second there, he didn't care, he just wanted to keep going with the same motions over and over again. But the guy was turning to look at him, blood covering his nose and mouth and chin, big blue, tired eyes pleading him to stop, and lips moving in the same rhythm.

Slowly, Dean regain his stream of consciousness; the rough shades of colours started to fade away, his vision and hearing got clearer, but the buzzing sound only got stronger and stronger, repetitive, tedious and annoying.

"Be.. Be... Bell!" Dean finally heard Novak shouts, "The bell! The bell!"

It wasn't 'please' the guy was mouthing, it wasn't even 'stop' or 'it hurts', he was warning him of the freaking bell.

Dean looked down, blinking. There was still something blocking his vision, not colours this time, no, it was more of a cloud of fury and hatred, a misk of agony and despair. It was all present now, he has finally returned from his hazy, darkened state of mind. Dean was awakened, and he was no longer able to keep his fists going. It was all too much. He stepped back, instead, his breaths heavy and vision vague. He looked down at his feet and saw blood, he held his hands in front of himself and saw blood, he looked at his clothes and saw blood. His eyes kept wandering around his body, seeing more and more traces of the bright liquid. As he kept going, in the corner of his sight, he noticed, without intending to, the thin stream of red.  As if Dean did not know what lies at the end of the red trail, he followed it, scared and unprepared.

Dean's eyes laid on the figure lying on the floor, hurt and bruised and entirely vulnerable. "Help me get up," he heard Novak coughing, "I'll... I'll handle the guards."

A part of Dean, a deep part of him - dark and full of hatred, wanted to leave the helpless man to rot; crumpled up and coughing blood. Yet, the part of him that had killed his dad, the part that was screaming for salvation, cleared the cloud of emotions away from his sight, and let the realisation of what he had done sink in.

Eventually, he held his hand out, his arm stiff and tense.

Castiel shifted to lay on his back, panting and breathing heavily. Every part of his body sorrowed and hurt and screamed in protest with each move he was making. He glanced at the hand offered to him, and hated the very idea of accepting it. Sadly for him, Castiel had no other choice. Begrudgingly, he took Dean's arm, feeling the hand clenching around his and pulling him up from the floor.

Castiel wanted to give him an angry look, curse him, or even punch him again, but he could barely find the strength to stand up straight. He felt himself being guided forward until they stopped in front of the door, where Dean left him to hold on by his own.

His failed attempts to stand straight cost him another few bloody coughs and forced him to fold inside himself, as if his stomach was about to fall out any second now.

In the lack of any better choice, he leaned against the wall, waiting for one of the guards to finally show up and redeem him from his misery.

On Castiel's right stood Dean, who kept sending quick glimpses at his hurt cellmate. The man was unbalanced and needed the wall for support. Dean knew he fucked him up, he knew he beat the living shit out of the guy. The rage boiling in him was still present, except this time, fear sneaked into his heart.

If he kept going, would he have killed him?

"When the guards will come, do not interrupt the conversation." Dean heard the heavy breaths to his left, "I am the one to handle this or we will both be in solitary for a week."

If the bell didn't ring, Dean would have stopped. He would, right? He wouldn't have killed him. That's absurd.

The thought he might have never stopped, the thought Novak might have been dead by now by his own hands terrified him. Maybe Dean did belong here, after all.

They were both standing there, Castiel with his body lying against the wall and Dean, hands behind his back with a tall and upright stand. The door opened and one of the prison's guards, Rogers, peeked through the door's window, calling to the half passed out prisoner to stand straight.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, sir," Castiel groaned in pain, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice steady.

"What do you mean you 'can't'? Stand the fuck up or you'll find yourself in solitary!" Rogers yelled with no mercy. He was never fond of the Novak family.

"Can't you see he's hurt?" Dean shouted all of a sudden, turning to stare at the guard through the small slot in the door. "Are you really that blind? C'mon, just take one freaking look at the guy!"

Both Castiel and guard Rogers glared at Dean as if he was interrupting something he should have never gotten into, which was partially correct, but Dean was in no mood to care for any of it. He could swear, though, Novak was thinking about at least five different ways to skin him alive.

"I'm coming inside," the guard barked after letting his eyes trail on Novak's bloody face and shirt, "No one make a move."

Calmly, Rogers stepped inside the cell; his eyes lied on Dean’s bloody nose, then immediately  followed the thick, red blood on Novak's shirt, to the drops on the floor, until he stopped at the small puddle at the middle of the cell. Dean could see his eyes widen for a split second before the guard turned to look back at Novak, who looked like he was suffering greatly from the simple effort of standing against the wall.

"Mind to explain?" The guard asked gruffly, as if he had no patience to truly investigate what happened there. It was clear as day to him, and with one wrong move, he could send the both of them to solitary for the next few weeks.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes off the two men staring one at another. He had to admit, he had no idea what was going on. He thought the guards were supposed to protect the inmates and take care of them. Novak was clearly in pain, so why was the guard just staring at him?

"Winchester likes it rough, sir," Novak said, eyes glued with clear hatred onto Rogers, "I was just happy to oblige. Do not blame us for getting carried away."

Dean could feel the blush running up his neck, burning up his cheeks to his ears and covering it with bright red. He could his face heating up, his mouth going dry and his mind screaming as if only three words existed in the English language; _No, he didn't_.

"Oh, really?" Rogers snorted, "And your little rough sex is what caused this mess?"

"Yes, sir, it did. I bit his lip harder than planned, so at the passion of the moment, we fell from my bunk onto the floor."

Dean was going to be sick; he wanted to throw up and get himself to the nearest shower to wash himself away from Novak's words. The more the two kept talking, the more violated he felt.

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Would you want me to be more specific?" Castiel asked shamelessly. He knew it was not about making sense, it was about being as disgusting and absurd as possible, it was about giving Rogers what he wanted in order to avoid solitary. Dean, however, didn't share the same idea with him.

"Please don't," Dean groaned, hating every moment he had to listen to this story.

"Winchester, shut up!" Castiel barked, hurting himself from the effort of raising up his voice too loud and causing him to moan in pain.

“Yes?” Rogers asked with a smile, waiting for Castiel to finish up his story.

"We... we.. we were moaning... like that... the pleasure..." he struggled, his breathing shallow and eyes flickering in pain. "It was all... too much... Win... Winchester’s moans were... toxic...." Castiel kept going, kept talking, feeling his mind banging itself against his head. He felt like he was close to fainting.

"I..." he tried again.

Everything was aching, every breath he took was like three knives digging to his flesh at the same time.

"Did you have a good ride?" Guard Rogers sneered and glanced at Dean, who looked as if he was about to break the guard’s back into two. "The boy _is_  pretty. Good catch," he added and turned to Castiel again, giving him a pat on the shoulder that made him sink few inches to the floor.

"Winchester, take Novak to the clinic and return straight back for dinner. No shortcuts and no wandering around!"

Smiling at the two cellmates smugly, guard Rogers left the cell, his laugh echoed behind him.

Dean gave his bunkmate a weird, angry, look. There was no need to say he did not approve any of the events in the cell. "Wow," he barked, his tone full of contempt, "Buy me a drink first, at least, will ya'?" He really didn't want to spend another second in his presence, needless to say carry him all the way to the clinic.

"Take me... to the..." Novak murmured, his tongue getting stuck and lost between words. The pain was getting worse and worse, he just wanted to lie down, rest his head, and let the doctor do what he needs.

Dean felt his eyes rolling in their sockets. He knew the guy was in a bad shape, but he didn't have to act as if he was dying. He was just a little beat up, right? Dean couldn't have injured him that badly.

A shiver went through his spine when he finally started considering that maybe he did hurt the guy more than he thought, maybe he wasn't overreacting and acting like a spoiled dick. Could it really be, if it wasn't for that bell, Dean would have really beaten Novak to death?

"I got you," he said as he took the guy's arm and wrapped it around his shoulder, shifting his weight away from the wall and carrying him out of the cell. "Just tell me where I need to go."

"Tha... Tha.. Thank you," Castiel breathed.

As they slowly moved through the hall, Castiel felt himself fading away; his sight lost its focus, and his head became heavier and heavier. This guy, his bunkmate, _Winchester_ , did this to him. He did this to him and Castiel hated him for it. He had to take action, he had to respond to this nightmare.

"Cro... Crowley," he growled in pain, his stomach burning on the inside. "Get Crowley."

"No, it's okay, I'm taking you there," Dean whispered, trying to reassure Novak as gently as he could that he wasn't going to hurt him anymore.

"No!" Castiel protested, "No! I need Crowley!"

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you," Dean tried to promise.

"No.. No... I need.. I need..."

Dean could feel him squirming and shifting, struggling to get away from his hold, which, as Dean was afraid, will get him to fall on the floor. Novak was in a bad shape enough, another fall might hurt him even more.

"Okay, Okay, fine. I'm going to get him," Dean finally agreed, looking around the hall in a hope to find a man he didn’t even know. "Just wait here," he said and helped the guy to rest peacefully on the floor, "I'll be right back."

He looked around. Prisoners were still moving along the hallway, staring at the both of them in curiosity. None of them offered to help, none of them wanted to get between Novak's business.

Dean figured he'll find the guy if he headed towards the dining area, and so he did. He ran through a sea of prisoners, bumping into the few who didn't have the brains to step aside and let him through. He didn't care; his cellmate was in the middle of the hall, bleeding, and it's all because of him.

He stepped inside the cafeteria, eyes searching for Novak's table. It didn't take long to find it, the memory of the guy staring at him at lunch was not something he could forget easily.

"Which one of you is Crowley?" he asked, short of breath due to his running.

"Who asks to know, darling?" a rough voice with a British accent was heard and made Dean turn towards it. The man talking was a scruffy old guy with brown eyes and a huge grin spread on his face. Dean knew right away that he didn't like him.

"Winchester. Who is Crowley?" Dean asked again, ignoring the man's teasing.

"Hello, Winchester," the man nodded, "What do you need from Crowley, if I may ask?"

It was clear as day the guy was messing with him.

"Look," Dean started, pissed off at this waste of time. There was blood on his hands and clothes, and he wanted to rip the man's smirk off of his face. "Novak told me to get Crowley, and he seemed pretty fucking urgent for a guy who looks like he left the ring with Apollo Creed, so will you please point me to who this Crowley guy is?"

Dean ended his speech in more of an angry tone than he meant to. He knew it wasn't smart messing with Novak's little gang, but since he entered this prison, he didn't act smart even once. It would be a shame to ruin the sequence now, especially when there was a guy bleeding on the floor near his cell.

"Well, apparently you're looking for me," Crowley said, his eyebrow raised to the young boy's demanding tone. "Did Novak, by accident, mention what he wanted from me?"

"No, but he needs a clinic and he won't go unless you come," Dean said, assertive and determined on his demand.

"Let's not dwell on etiquettes, then, shall we? Lead the way."

So Dean did, and he did it by walking as fast as Crowley let him. Dean had to wait impatiently more than a few times so he won't lose the guy’s tracks. The man moved along like he was strolling casually through the park, instead of rushing to help someone who could barely walk.

And it was Dean who did this. It was him who punched Novak and kicked him mercilessly. It was him who couldn't stop himself when he should have. Was he really in any position of judging Crowley?

"Oh, well, well, well, what kind of trouble did you get in?" Crowley marveled arrogantly at the sight of Castiel sitting against the wall.

Dean rolled his eyes, asking himself why the hell Novak would want someone _li_ _ke him_  with him while he was in this shape.

"Hey, Novak," Dean called and ran to Castiel who seemed like he was napping on the floor, "I brought Crowley. You gotta wake up, you hear me? Crowley is here."

He slapped twice on the poor guy's face, trying to wake him up.

"Novak, can you hear me? You gotta wake up, buddy, Crowley is here."

Castiel groaned and blinked a couple of times before he managed to wake up. When he did, he stared at Dean, who was crouching next to him, green eyes and freckles and worried look on his face. And only clear pain was seen, in plain sight, in Castiel’s blue, blue eyes .

"Leave."

Dean blinked at Castiel in confusion. It took him more than a while to realise the meaning of the word and accept it. He didn't know why it struck him so odd, the fact that he was asked to leave. It could have been his voice, the same voice that made his skin shiver as it echoed between those cell walls.

"He told you to leave, Winchester, so you better go," Crowley scoffed, waking Dean up from his shock and whistling at him to leave.

"Shit, yeah, I'm out," Dean snorted and got up, a little disappointed and bitter, if he had to be honest with himself, almost like he expected Novak to let him stay, "don't worry 'bout it."

"Smart decision," Crowley said as Dean left the hall, his shirt still stained with blood.

"Looks like you found yourself a fangirl, Novak," Crowley sneered as Castiel moaned again in pain. "You look lovely, by the way. The look suits you."

"My gratitudes."

"Who did this to you, dearie?" Crowley asked and let his hand reach for his lighter and pack of cigarettes, lighting one up and taking a short breath from it.

He waited a couple of minutes, enjoying his smoke and watching Castiel as he kept moaning in pain. It was almost amusing, really, seeing the guy like that.

"My answer is yes," Castiel finally said in a quiet voice.

"Pardon?"

"You have my consent," Castiel explained, holding his stomach in pain, "Five thousand dollars for your services."

"I see..." Crowley took another breath from his cigarette, stretching the moment as far as he could.

"It will be done by tomorrow," he added after blowing the smoke out of his lungs, ready to finish the conversation and head to the clinic.

"No." Castiel said, surprising Crowley and making his raise his eyebrow. "No. I want to be the one who takes his last breath, not you. You will torment him for me until my upcoming return. You have to promise me not to kill him."

Crowley's smile sneaked up his lip. This should be much more amusing than just killing a guy. This should be fun.

"Six thousand and we have a deal," he offered.

And Cas, without thinking twice, agreed.

"Now help me get to the clinic, before I faint on the floor."

Crowley’s smile only got wider as he picked the boy up from the floor, holding him, feeling the blood from his nose dripping onto his shirt. He had no idea how bad Castiel’s condition was until they got to the clinic, but he could only imagine by how fainted Novak was. Winchester, the new meat, wasn’t lying when he said Novak could barely walk. Crowley knew Novak for quite a while now, and he knew - he wouldn’t fake it, he wouldn’t fake any of it. And Castiel? Eyes dazing, mind buzzing, pain in every part of his beaten body, and cravings for the drug he couldn’t get. If he could choose a moment to pass out, he had chosen the very moment Crowley picked him up from the floor. The way he was being lifted up made every part in his stomach growl with terrible ache. Lucky him, a few short minutes after they got to the clinic, he lost his consciousness, leaving all his trust in the hands of Crowley. What other choice did he have, really? The only important thing right now was that Crowley is going to take care of things. He is going to take care of Winchester.


End file.
